Читать книгу The Reluctant Bride - Kathryn Alexander - Страница 8

“Meet me there at noon.”

“Carole, I have a ton of work to do. Are you sure we can be in and out of that place in an hour?” Micah held the telephone receiver between her shoulder and ear, wiping flour-covered hands on a dishcloth as she spoke to her friend.

“Positive,” came Carole's quick response. “It's a good restaurant. Great food, fast service.”

“Okay,” Micah answered. Baking needed to be done and her neglected painting stared at her from the corner of the workshop, but she was getting hungry. “We'll need to hurry.”

“No problem. Everyone in there will probably be in a hurry. Lots of business and professional people from downtown eat their lunches there. Lots of them.”

“You're late,” Carole observed aloud as Micah rushed into the crowded restaurant lobby over an hour later.

“I know, I know.” Micah adjusted her skirt and blouse quickly. “I had to wait for the pies to come out of the oven.”

“Pies?”

“Shepherd?” The hostess summoned them. “Party of two?”

“Yes,” they replied simultaneously.

“You gave my name?” Micah asked.

“I always do when I make reservations for us. Shepherd is easier to spell than Zabotrowski.”

They followed the hostess, weaving their way around tables, small and large, toward a booth along the wall. They slid into their seats and each received a menu.

“Would you like something from the bar?” the hostess inquired.

“No, I don't drink,” Micah answered.

Carole shook her head. She did not care for anything, either.

They were assured their waitress would be along in a moment to take their orders and were left to review the menu.

“All you need to say is, ‘No thanks,’ Micah. You don't need to tell every hostess in central Ohio that you don't drink,” Carole muttered. “Surely God doesn't expect that from you. I mean, it's not even one of the Ten Commandments. Now, tell me, why were you baking pies?”

“For the school bake sale tomorrow. The kids are trying to raise money for a trip to Washington, D.C.”

“Everyone? The whole school?”

“Just the fourth and fifth grades will be going. That is, if they can raise the money.” Micah closed the menu. “I think I'll have a salad and a bowl of vegetable soup.”

“Well, I'm starving so I'm going to have the turkey-bacon club, a side salad and… what kind of pies did you bake?”

“Apple, but they're for the school,” Micah reminded her friend.

“Then I suppose I'll order some dessert.”

“Unless you want to buy one for a donation. Of course, I don't know how good they'll be. I haven't baked since last year—”

“Christmas, maybe? Remember? You baked two pumpkin pies at the cabin that weekend?”

“Oh, those.” Micah covered her face with a hand. “Don't remind me.”

“They weren't that bad. We ate them.”

“We had to. It was either that or no dessert,” Micah recalled.

“Well they might have been better if you had used the frozen crusts like I suggested.” Carole placed her menu on the table.

“I really wanted to bake my own pies, Carole. Taking something out of the freezer and putting it into the oven, it just doesn't seem right calling it your own.”

“Why not? I do it every evening. Out of the freezer and into the microwave. Beef Stroganoff, chipped beef, chicken A la king…”

“That's different.”

“So how much for a pie? I mean, even if it's not great, at least it's a pie. There won't be anything that vaguely resembles one of those coming out of my oven in the foreseeable future. How much do you want?”

“Six dollars?” Micah asked more than stated.

“Sold,” was Carole's reply as the waitress approached the booth.

With their orders placed, Micah glanced at her thin gold wristwatch. Grateful it was Friday and she had no teaching assignment today, Micah planned to spend the afternoon working on the painting she had started months ago: a little church in the country. Her long, slender fingers tucked a stray wisp of auburn hair behind her ear.

“Do you think ‘living right’ has anything to do with having great hair?” Carole asked, her words slicing into Micah's thoughts.

“What are you talking about?”

“You have the natural curls I've always wanted. Is it a gift from God for being good or something like that?”

“If I thought it would get you into church on Sunday, I'd be tempted to say ‘yes.’”

“And tell a lie?” Carole quipped. “Surely not.”

Several people walked past their booth, but Micah paid little attention to them. She had just picked up a bread stick from the basket on the table when she heard Carole's greeting.

“Hello, Rob! What a pleasant surprise!”

Rob. Micah quickly placed the bread stick on a saucer and picked up her napkin to wipe her fingers.

“Carole? It's been a long time since I've seen you,” the distinctly male voice responded.

“Yes, it has. You know Micah Shepherd, don't you?” Carole's words bubbled with enthusiasm as she motioned toward Micah.

“Yes,” he replied, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. She noticed Rob's eyebrows lift as his gaze met and held hers. “We've met. How are you, Miss Shepherd?”

Micah smiled in response. “Fine, thank you.” In some unexplainable way, she was both pleased and not pleased to see him again. So why was her heart pounding so loudly in her ears?

“I didn't realize that you and Miss Shepherd were friends.” He spoke to Miss Zabotrowski, but his eyes remained firmly fixed upon her auburn-haired companion.

“Would you care to join us?” Carole offered.

Rob glanced at a nearby table. “Thank you, but I'm meeting someone for lunch, and I'm running late, as it is.”

Micah exhaled a quiet sigh of relief before asking, “How is Mrs. Winslow?”

“About the same.” Rob's piercing blue gaze burned through her as though silently questioning the motive for her inquiry and forcing Micah to look away. “It was nice to see you again, Carole, and you, too, Miss Shepherd.”

Miss Shepherd. His formality iritated her, exactly the way he'd meant it to. Micah watched him turn and walk away, but not too far. He sat down at a table close by with an attractive brunette. Micah crunched into the bread stick.

“What's with you two? Just because you're not a good witness for Old Yeller doesn't mean you and Rob can't be friendly,” Carole snapped.

“We're not friends,” Micah replied, staring into the bowl of soup that the waitress set before her. “Mr. Granston is an attorney, I was a witness—a poor one—and that is the sum of our relationship.”

Carole poured extra dressing over her salad. “Are you kidding? Did you see the way he looked at you? He couldn't take his eyes off you.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“It's true.” Carole lowered her voice to a healthy whisper. “It was absolutely intense.”

“Eat your salad and mind your own business, Carole,” Micah warned softly before taking a drink from her water glass. He had looked surprised to see her again. Surprised, that was all. Wasn't it? She glanced toward the nearby table. The brunette was involved in some animated conversation, and Rob was being appropriately attentive.

“I'm just glad he's here today, even if he is with that dark-haired beauty. When I made the reservations, I was afraid I might have been wasting my time.”

“This was intentional?” Micah placed her spoon on the table. “You assumed Rob would be here?”

“Rob?” Carole smiled. “I thought it was Mr. Granston?”

“Don't change the subject. You did this on purpose.” Suddenly the meal didn't seem quite so inviting. “What if he knows why we're here?”

“Now you're the one who's being ridiculous. He's a lawyer, Micah, not a psychic. How could he possibly know my reason for inviting you here?”

Carole was right. He really couldn't know, Micah reasoned. “Is this where you had lunch with him?”

“Yes, but it was a business luncheon. I've told you that—”

“I'd really like to go home, Carole. My appetite seems to have disappeared.”

“Leave without eating? What would he think if he saw us running out of here without having our lunch?”

Micah hesitated. “All right, you win. Let's eat and then go right away.”

They gradually worked their way through their meals, Carole a little more happily than Micah because Micah had trouble keeping her eyes from straying to the table that Rob and the brunette occupied. The last time she glanced up, the woman had disappeared—to the ladies’ room, Micah supposed—and Rob's eyes rested directly on her. She smiled, a feeble little smile, in response, and looked back into her half-empty salad plate. The sooner she could get out of here, the better.

“I'm finished,” Carole finally announced as she placed her napkin on the table, pulled her wallet from her purse and summoned their waitress to the table. “We'd like our checks now, please.”

“They have already been taken care of, miss,” the waitress stated.

“But we haven't seen them yet,” Micah interjected.

Carole added, “There must be some mistake.”

“There's no mistake. The gentleman you spoke with earlier paid the bills.”

They both turned, but Rob was gone.

“Well, well, well,” Carole mused aloud as they walked out of the dimly lit restaurant into the sunshine, warm and bright. “So that's the sum of your relationship.”

“He obviously bought lunch for you,” Micah insisted while walking toward Carole's car. “You know him and—”

“And I think he was buying for the pretty redhead seated at my table.” Carole pulled open her car door, laughing. “If he caught a glimpse of your car on the way into the restaurant, he probably took pity on you, assuming that you couldn't afford to eat in a place this nice.”

Micah shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun with one hand. “There's nothing wrong with my old station wagon,” Micah replied, though she knew only too well that there was plenty wrong with it

“No, nothing other than the fact that it's old and it's a station wagon.” Carole glanced around the parking lot. “Where did you leave it?”

“I had trouble trying to start it,” Micah admitted, “and I decided to walk. So Rob couldn't see my car even if he wanted to. Obviously, the lunch was for you.”

“Do you want a ride home, or do you prefer standing in this hot sun arguing?”

The air felt sticky, and Micah was anxious to get home. The ride sounded good.

“I have a pie to pick up, remember?” Carole added.

The bake sale and the entire weekend flew by in a blur. So much so that Micah barely thought of her encounter with Rob Granston. Except for once or twice, late at night, just before she fell asleep. Deciding against calling to thank him for lunch, she left that task to Carole. After all, he was Carole's friend. Calling would seem presumptuous, as if she was assuming he'd picked up the check with her in mind when, certainly, that had not been the case, she reminded herself.

Micah ran a brush slowly through her long curls and applied a touch of peach lipstick to finish her morning routine. Another rainy Monday. What an unpredictable spring, rainy sometimes, hot and humid others. But today Micah returned to a familiar school, and that brightened her spirits regardless of the weather. When two years of substitute teaching wore thin, she had gladly agreed to finish out the school year at Wellspring Elementary as a replacement for a teacher on maternity leave. It surprised Micah to discover how much she enjoyed greeting the same young faces each day. Maybe she would consider looking for a full-time position soon. Maybe something permanent was what she needed in her life. She had already lived here for two years, longer than she had stayed in any other city since her eighteenth birthday. Columbus suited her, especially the German Village location of her apartment with its brick-lined streets and quaint buildings, and as long as the thought of leaving saddened her, she stayed.

Meow…meow…. Micah laughed lightly as she hurried toward the door and the pitiful noise.

“Poor baby.” She opened the door a few inches, enough to allow a multicolored cat to enter. “Mrs. Poe puts you outside every morning, rain or shine, doesn't she, Patches? How about some milk?”

Micah poured the liquid into a saucer, and then set it on the kitchen floor. Stroking the cat's damp fur, she heard that familiar purring begin. “There you go, babe. That should make you a little happier, but you're going to get fat having two breakfasts every morning. I know Mrs. Poe feeds you well.”

The morning paper cluttered the table where Micah had been reading it and eating toast, but one glance at the clock told her that the mess would have to wait to be straightened up until evening.

“Hurry, Patches.” Gathering her umbrella and books, Micah started for the door with her landlady's cat scurrying after her. It paused to rub against Micah's ankles and nearly knocked her down in the process. “Out the door, Patches.” She gave the cat a gentle shove with her foot, forcing the feline into the steady spring shower. “Sorry to rush you, but I've got to go,” she said and turned the key in the lock, twisting the knob to be certain it had locked securely.

“See you later, kitty.” Unexpected sadness rained down on her as surely as the light drops. She was twenty-eight years old, and all she had to come home to every evening was Patches…a cat that didn't even belong to her. Surely there must be something, someone more for her out there. Why didn't the Lord show her His plan for her life? she wondered again as she had done many times. She already knew what she couldn't do, but the whole city wasn't filled with attorneys, was it? Why couldn't she meet a pastor, a math teacher or a truck driver…?

Micah stacked her books on the front seat. Or why couldn't she be happy alone? She had been content with her life until recently. When had that changed? She leaned into the car, her eyes coming to rest on a painting placed there earlier. The little country church with a backdrop of a summer-blue sky—the same gentle blue of Rob Granston's eyes.

Suddenly, she knew when the contentment had vanished.